


Hastur and the Terrible Horrible No-Good Very Bad Day

by shenhai



Series: Good Omens: Deleted Scenes [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gap Filler, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, Ineffable Bureaucracy (Good Omens), Loss, Multi, Post-Apocalypse, interdimensional phone calls to ur crush, ~butterfly meme~ is this a crack fic?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-11 20:38:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19934149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shenhai/pseuds/shenhai
Summary: Hastur spends one (1) day without his best friend Ligur and realizes that even in Hell... that kind of sucks.





	1. Saturday Afternoon

**Author's Note:**

> Don't blame me for this fic, blame [amdg2846](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amdg2846/works), who both prompted and beta'd this abomination in the eyes of God and man.
> 
> And demon, too, for that matter.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Hastur Feels a Feeling, and Beelzebub Feels a Different One.

Hell was gathered for the final battle. Ten million demons stood ready to fight against the forces of Heaven in the last, greatest reckoning.

Well, nine million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine demons, anyway.

Hastur sat on a rickety chair in an empty room, arms crossed, sulking. A leaky pipe dripped ceaselessly into a bucket, and Hastur glared at it with all his demonic energy, as if he could _will_ the thing to crust over.

The pipe split, dousing the table beneath it in brown sludgy water.

Hastur shrieked in rage and vaulted out of his chair, kicking the table, the bucket, ripping papers, destroying everything in sight.

“Damn you Crowley!” he howled. “I’ll get you back for this! I’ll get you back for all of it, you spineless traitor! For _discorporating_ me—” he kicked a bench, which spontaneously combusted— “for _betraying us—_ ” a stack of papers disintegrated in flame— “for— for _Ligur!_ ” he shrieked, and an entire section of wall collapsed into burning rubble.

Hastur crumpled to the floor, reliving Ligur’s gruesome death down to every miniscule detail. He was suddenly very glad to be alone. His face was wet…must be from the pipe.

“He— he was my _friend_ ,” Hastur croaked. He knew that demons weren’t precisely supposed to have friends, but Ligur had been his.

He gulped a bit, and his face got wetter.

Then he felt it. Something had changed. Or not changed, precisely, but gone wrong. Something that was supposed to be happening…wasn’t.

Hastur poked his head out the door. The corridor was filled with demons waiting to ascend, who were beginning to look at each other questioningly.

“What’s the holdup?” one of them grumbled. “Shouldn’t we be fighting already?” The cave spider that sat on his head twitched its legs impatiently.

“I’m sure the line’ll start moving in a minute,” another replied, blinking slowly while the salamander that crowned him curled its tail around his ear.

“There ain’t no _line_ , you idiot,” the first demon snapped, “we just _ascend_.”

“What, you mean like straight up?” the second one gawked.

“Well, yeah,” a third demon sneered. “How’d you think we got up there, stairs?” He laughed, the giant centipede attached to his spine writhing and rippling.

The salamander furrowed his brows in earnest concern. “Won’t we hit the ceiling though?”

“Oh, get out of my way,” Hastur snapped, shoving them all aside. “Bloody fools, you’re not going anywhere!” He pushed through the crowds, trying to get to Lord Beelzebub.

It took him nearly ten minutes, but he arrived just as Beelzebub reappeared in a burst of green light. The fabric of her suit was smoking slightly at the left shoulder from two small, round scorch marks. She looked even more angry than usual, and immediately started to stalk towards the elevator.

“Wait,” cried Dagon, “what happened? Where are you going?”

“To speak to Our Lord Below,” Beelzebub answered. She stepped inside the elevator, and no one dared follow her.

A minute later, they heard a deafening roar and all of Hell began to quake and shudder.

Hastur flattened himself against the wall for balance, ignoring the sign plastered onto it (GIVE UP HOPE — it won’t help you here). The wrath of Satan lasted all of three minutes, though, before it was abruptly, suddenly over.

Hastur looked around. No one knew what was happening. Then they heard a bellow of rage from beneath their feet and everyone cowered again. A moment later, the elevator doors opened and Beelzebub stepped out, looking pale and singed. The crowd parted to allow her to reach the pedestal on which Dagon stood waiting. Beelzebub looked around, almost as if in shock, then closed her eyes and gave a small sigh of resignation. When she opened them again, she was back to her businesslike manner.

“Right,” she said briskly, “everyone, back to work! Armageddon has been cancelled.”

The room erupted into confusion.

“ _Cancelled?!_ ” some shouted.

“Back to work?!” others wailed.

“ _Crowley!_ ” Hastur howled.

“What happened up there?” Dagon shouted over the din, and the room fell silent.

Beelzebub glared at her.

“That is a matter for the Dark Council to discuss _in private_ , Dagon. Now come on, everyone, get to it! Put down your weapons and resume your regularly scheduled activities.”

No one moved.

“But my Lord,” said Dagon, “there _are_ no more regularly scheduled activities.”

Beelzebub blinked. She hadn’t even considered that. Everything on Hell’s agenda had been seen to in preparation for Armageddon. Not much point in planning past the End of Time.

“Right,” said Beelzebub. “Uh, okay. Everyone, you’ve, uh, got the day off. But you’re all on-call, so don’t get any funny ideas.”

Everyone looked at each other in blank astonishment.

“Well?” Beelzebub barked. “Go on, scram! Disperse!”

Dagon stared openmouthed as the assembly began to buzz with confusion and excitement. The masses slowly shuffled off down the corridors, spreading the news of Hell’s first ever holiday.

“My Lord?” Dagon asked, incredulous.

“Call a meeting of the Dark Council, Dagon. Immediately. Let me know when they’re all present; I have to make a call.”

She stepped off the pedestal and headed towards her office, leaving Dagon slack-jawed and staring. Hastur deliberated a moment. He was unsure whether now would be the right time to bring up Crowley’s treachery, but if the Dark Council was to make a decision on anything, it ought to have all the facts. He made up his mind, and went down the corridor towards Beelzebub’s office.

She had closed her door for the call, but as it was hung wrong on its hinges, it actually did quite little to keep the sound in. Hastur would never have intentionally eavesdropped on the Prince of Hell, but as it happened, he could not help but overhear her side of the conversation.

“We need to talk. … It’s me, you idiot. … No, obviously not. … Just hold on a damned minute—we have a problem. … A _different_ problem. … Well unless you lot are several millennia behind on your standard operations, you’ve got the same problem we do, which is that _there are no more scheduled jobs to do_.”

There was a long pause. By this point, Hastur’s ear was quite firmly—but wholly unintentionally—pressed up against the doorframe.

“Search me,” Beelzebub said finally. “Look, as much as I hate to suggest this, maybe we should meet up. … No, not for drinks, you utter git; to decide what is to be done about the rest of Time! … Well obviously on Earth. … Yes, we’ve used that venue before. … Yes, that should be enough time. I'll gather my people. … Fine, yes, I suppose that makes sense. … Right. An hour, then. …”

Hastur heard the click of the receiver a moment later, and jumped back from the door in case she meant to exit her office. When she did not come out, he knocked softly and pushed the door open. Beelzebub was staring at the phone with an odd expression on her face. It was curious, and—if Hastur hadn’t known better—he would have called it almost _soft_.

“My Liege?” he inquired.

Beelzebub’s hand flew to her side from where it had been absently fiddling with the singed fabric on her left shoulder.

“Yes, what? What do you want Hastur?”

Hastur ignored her strange behavior—he had other things on his mind.

“My Liege, I’ve come to seek retribution against the demon Crowley. I’m certain he had some part to play in stopping the Apocalypse, and— and— he _killed_ Ligur! With _holy water!_ I saw it with my own eyes; it was horrible! He’s done nothing but cause trouble since we entrusted the Antichrist to him, and that _angel_ he associates with—”

Beelzebub held up a hand to quiet him.

“I assure you, Duke Hastur, the demon Crowley will be punished. The Dark Council is meeting soon to discuss just that, as well as a few other things. His disobedience will not be taken lightly.”

“And his murder of a fellow demon?” Hastur demanded, only slightly hysterically. “Ligur hadn’t so much as touched him, and he just—”

“Yes, yes, the murder as well,” Beelzebub waved a hand dismissively.

Dagon poked her head in just then.

“The Dark Council are assembled, my Lord,” she said.

“Right,” said Beelzebub. “Let’s get this over with, then.”

“My Liege,” said Hastur quickly, not wanting to be excluded, “shouldn’t there be a witness to Crowley’s crimes present at this meeting?”

It was brazen, he knew, but with Ligur gone and Armageddon disrupted, Hastur felt as though the entire universe had been turned on its head. What had he to lose, really?

Beelzebub considered him for a moment, then shrugged.

“I suppose it can’t hurt,” she said. “All right, follow me, then.”

She and Dagon set off with Hastur close at their heels, barely containing his excitement. _He was going to meet the Dark Council!_

Beelzebub, who knew what she was about to propose to them, was considerably less excited.

She pushed open the doors and took her seat at the head of the table. Dagon sat at her right hand, and Hastur stood awkwardly to one side. The other eleven Council members were all present, the sounds and stenches of their various animalian Hosts swirling around the dark chamber. They waited expectantly for Beelzebub to begin the meeting.

“All Hail Satan,” she intoned the formal greeting. Every voice in the room echoed it back to her, and she waved a fly out of her face.

“Right,” she said. “I have some news.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for Chapter 2, in which the Dark Council (+Hastur) attend a meeting.


	2. The First Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Hastur Attends a Meeting, and Beelzebub Grants a Promotion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta by the inestimable [amdg2846](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amdg2846/works), who can write metaphysics much better than I can.

“As you are all aware,” Beelzebub droned, “the Apocalypse has been cancelled. Before we get into what all that means, I should like to draw the Council’s attention to the matter of the demon Crowley, who turned traitor to Hell in order to avert Armageddon. Witness to his crimes is one Hastur, Duke of Hell. Hastur, step forward.”

Hastur obediently did. All eyes turned towards him.

“Give your testimony to the Dark Council,” Beelzebub commanded.

Hastur obediently did. The room was eerily quiet while he spoke. His words seemed to have no effect on the assembly whatsoever. He could not catch a glimmer of emotion on any of their faces.

“—and the _cold-blooded_ _murder_ of his fellow demon, Ligur, with _holy water_!” he finished dramatically, hoping to elicit some— _any_ —sort of response.

The Dark Council merely blinked at him, all thirteen of them, in perfect unison. Hastur took an instinctive step backwards into the shadows, terribly relieved when, as a single unit, they turned their unsettling collective gaze back to their Prince.

“I propose,” buzzed Beelzebub, “that a trial and execution be held for the traitor Crowley tomorrow; what does the Council decide?”

It was barely a question. Not once in all the millennia she had ruled as Prince of Hell had the Dark Council ever defied her—at least not that Hastur had ever heard.

They nodded once, silently.

“Good,” said Beelzebub. “Now on to bigger matters. Dagon has brought it to my attention that our plans for the future are somewhat…scant. Dagon, the files.”

Dagon gawked at her.

“Th— There are no files, my Lord,” she said uncertainly.

“Precisely,” said Beelzebub. “We are in crisis. We have ten million demons currently milling about Hell with absolutely nothing to keep them busy. We’ll have anarchy on our hands if we can’t come up with something for them all to do.”

“What do you propose, my Lord?” Dagon inquired.

Beelzebub frowned ever so slightly, for just a moment. Then she took a breath, and spoke.

“I’ve called a meeting with Heaven’s top executives,” she told them. “We’re to meet at the Grosvenor’s Square Marriott in London, the Berkeley Suite, in approximately one hour. Heaven has the same workflow problem, obviously, so we’ll strategize and discuss future courses of action cooperatively. Any objections?”

A few of the Council exchanged shifty, worried looks. One demon cleared her throat delicately as the large vulture perched on her head picked at a scab on her skull.

“Lord Beelzebub,” she said in a dry, raspy voice, “shouldn’t we take advantage of Heaven’s lack of interference? If they have no assignments, they’ll have no active agents on Earth. We’ll have the run of the place for as long as it takes them to get their trousers back on. We could secure countless souls for our Master, unchallenged. It would make our jobs much easier…”

She looked around in dismay, only just noticing that she had been slowly shrinking under Beelzebub’s withering glare.

Hastur watched in silent horror as she grew smaller and smaller, the vulture squawking and flapping its wings desperately in an attempt to stay atop her ever-diminishing head, the head that squealed in terror as she gradually transformed into a fat, white, wriggling grub.

The vulture, whose talons were now closed around the grub, squawked once more and took flight, shedding black feathers as it swooped unsteadily out the door that Dagon, pale and shaking, had gotten up unnoticed to open.

When the vulture had gone, Dagon closed the door and resumed her seat in petrified silence.

“Our profits,” declared Beelzebub in a tone that allowed no argument, “are greatest when Heaven’s occupancy on Earth balances our own. Every time we’ve tipped the scales, we’ve gotten a small, short-term increase followed immediately by a massive, long-term deficit. It took us ages to recover from that fiasco in the 16th century, for all the fun we had from it, and that was _with_ Heaven’s agents mucking about stirring up bravery and hope. Imagine the kind of disaster we’ll face if we go up there _now_.”

The gathering of flies that usually hovered around Beelzebub’s head had become a roiling, angry swarm, and her voice was so infused with their humming and sawing that it might as well have been the flies themselves speaking.

“If we try that,” she continued furiously, “without any Heavenly influence on Earth whatsoever, directly after a botched Apocalypse and _all the signs and portents that went along with it_ , the humans will absolutely notice us. In case you’re forgetting, _we lose_ if we are noticed. Once humans recognize us, they run straight to the churches and end up forever beyond our grasp. Is that what you all want? Hmm? To line Heaven’s pockets through our own reckless incompetence, without them even having to lift a finger?”

Her accusation reverberated around the cavernous chamber.

No one moved. No one spoke. No one dared even to draw an unnecessary breath. Beelzebub glared at each of them in turn, and the moment stretched…

At length, her shoulders relaxed. The buzzing subsided back to its normal, dull tone, and Beelzebub spread her hands flat on the table before her.

“Hell profits on human complacency,” she reminded the Council. “We thrive on the status quo. For this reason, we shall meet with Heaven’s executives and broker a deal which will allow the status to _remain_ quo. Are there any further objections?”

This last, though phrased as a question, was not one. It was, pure and simple, a threat.

There were no further objections.

“Right then,” Beelzebub said crisply. “In the meantime, are there any suggestions for what to do with the pestilent hordes?”

The Council slowly composed themselves, and subtle sound and movement once more returned to the room.

“Maintenance?” Dagon suggested after a moment. “They could clean out a room for Crowley’s trial.”

“Or make one,” added Hastur.

Beelzebub looked at him.

“Make one?”

Hastur shifted his feet, dreading the consequences of saying the wrong thing. He gulped.

“It would take longer,” he offered, failing to keep his voice from shaking. “Keep them all busy?”

He looked back and forth between Dagon and Beelzebub, trying to find reassurance in the fact that they did not seem to be growing bigger in his eyes, which meant, he could reasonably assume, that he was not yet shrinking.

“That…” Beelzebub said slowly, after a long pause, “is not a bad idea, Hastur.”

Hastur could have cried. It was the highest praise he’d ever received.

“All right then,” said Beelzebub. “I think that does it. Dagon, set the masses working on a room for Crowley’s trial, and then all of you prepare for the meeting with Heaven. I’m off to set things up. Assuming there is no more business, I—”

“Endless apologies, my Lord,” said Dagon, groveling, “but there is one small matter which should be brought to your attention before we convene.”

Beelzebub rolled her eyes and clicked her tongue impatiently.

“Yes, what is it, Dagon?”

“Well, my Lord, I thought it would be prudent to elect a new member to the Council before the meeting, seeing as how we are currently, er, one member short.”

“Hmm, yes,” Beelzebub hummed. “I suppose you’re right.”

She looked about, as if for inspiration, and her eyes eventually lit on Hastur, standing awkwardly in a corner as he had been the entire time. She regarded him curiously for a moment, then made up her mind.

“Well?” she asked him.

For a moment, all of Hastur’s dreams had come true. He, Hastur, a member of the Dark Council! Could it really be happening?

He looked down the table, grinning foolishly at the open seat, when his grin faltered. Several patchy black feathers were strewn about the area, and they brought his memory back sharply to the fate of his predecessor.

He gulped. Suddenly, the prospect of a promotion did not seem so appealing. But what would happen to him if he refused? He could not think about it.

He could not refuse.

Trembling a little, all traces of mirth and triumph wiped from his face, he looked back at the Prince of Hell and gave a shaky nod.

“Excellent,” she said, the corners of her mouth twitching into a ghastly smile. “Hastur, Duke of Hell. Welcome to the Dark Council.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for Chapter 3, in which Hastur attends a different meeting.


End file.
